The Bakken Blade Page 13

  Chapter 14

  In part, she knew it could be blamed on the drugs. That drug, alcohol. The heroin. The opiates. And most of all the meth. So much meth was coming out of this area of the state it had earned the nickname, “Williston White.” Brought here by the oil workers, the oil pipeline, the white men.

  The woman sat on the floor of her small home, legs crossed, meditating and chanting quietly to herself. She had seen so much in her lifetime.

  Her grandson, once a black haired imp with a crooked smile, had grown to become a man. And she had taught him about their history, about the great warriors from whom he had descended.

  As a boy, he learned well. He understood the lessons and he understood his grandmother’s wisdom, her insights into what she called ‘The Nation,’ which was actually several nations, now relegated to the barren lands of North Dakota.

  “The Nation was driven here because of the Iroquois,” she told him. “The Lakota Sioux were forced west by the Iroquois people many years ago. In the late 1600s. From Minnesota and Canada, the Nation ended up in North and South Dakota.”

  And she’d told her smiling grandson, “Your heritage is fierce. You are the son of many warriors.”

  “Otaktay” she had named him, a fierce name for a Lakota warrior. It meant, “Kills many.” In English he was named Robert.

  When he reached the right age, he’d attended Nueta Hidatsa Sahnish College, a college chartered by the Three Affiliated Tribes of Fort Berthold Reservation. He went there for a year and two months, but like many of his friends, he lost interest and quit.

  He had been born on Standing Rock reservation, on the south border of North Dakota. When he was small, the family moved to New Town and the Fort Berthold Reservation to be near the Bakken Formation, the oil.

  Now, in her trance-like state, his grandmother clearly remembered the many oppressions they had suffered as a people. No more, she thought.

  Slowly, she stood and went to the wall. She found the hidey-hole and took out the skinner’s knife. It was cold. There was little insulation in the walls of the small house, and the metal knife had absorbed the night cold from outside.

  She said to the knife, “You are my Bakken Blade. We will call on you again soon.”

  * * *

  It had started with the rumor of the pipeline, a few years ago. It wasn’t enough that the white men were taking the oil from their ground, the Sioux’ sacred soil. But they were doing it without regard for the ancestors buried there, or the clean water of the Missouri River.

  It was all about the money, she thought.

  The white men had pushed the Indian aside for centuries, whenever something that they desired was found on tribal land. And now, with oil worth billions, the Indians were once again being pushed aside, discarded. Their voices were being drowned out by the loud sound of the white man’s greed.

  Years ago, the great Missouri River flowed south and east toward the Mississippi, carrying hunting parties and trappers and pioneers. The Sioux had used the mighty river for fishing and hunting, and as a source of water for their tribe.

  Then the whites had dammed the river, covering Sioux villages and burial grounds with a new lake. Ancient tribal settlements were destroyed, as were Indian villages and towns like Old Sanish. New Town was formed at that time, over sixty years ago.

  And now, when oil was found on this “worthless land,” the white men were once again pushing the Indian out of the way.

  She shook her head in disgust. She said to the knife, “This must stop!”

  * * *

  “We use it for the horses,” said Dr. Adams. “It’s an anesthetic. I combine it with ketamine when we use it. It’s pretty common out here.”

  “Out here being northwest North Dakota?” asked Zeke.

  “Pretty much.”

  “You’re the Medical Examiner,” said Zeke. “Have you had many drug-related deaths from Xylazine?”

  “Rompun is the brand name. Bayer manufacturers it,” said the doctor absently.

  Zeke waited.

  “But not really, not so many. Deaths, I mean.”

  “It can be used to cut heroin, right?” Zeke asked, prompting.

  “I didn’t know that,” said Dr. Adams. “We haven’t seen that around here. Around here, it’s mostly opioids. And meth. Meth is almost a staple.”

  They were again sitting in the M.E.’s small office, gathered around her desk. Cord was reviewing Jenny Lakota’s final autopsy file, which he had open in front of him as they talked.

  “Narcotics-related deaths more than doubled in 2016. But even so, there were only 43 in the entire state that year.”

  “Puerto Rico,” said Zeke.

  “What?” asked Cord, absently.

  “In Puerto Rico, a lot of Xylazine has been stolen to cut heroin. It was stolen from equine vet suppliers,” Zeke continued. “Nothing like that here?”

  “Nope.” Dr. Adams shook her head slowly. Then she flipped her light brown hair back over her shoulder and thought for a moment. “Nope.”

  “They call it the Zombie drug,” said Zeke.

  “What?” asked Cord.

  “Xylazine. The Zombie drug.”

  “Anything like the ‘date rape drug’?” asked Cord.

  “Not so much that. I’ve read that addicts tend to walk bent over, forward, and slip in and out of consciousness,” Zeke added.

  “It’s a killer on your body, though. Heart. Brain. Kidneys,” said Dr. Adams.

  “Doc, it says here that Jenny had it in her stomach,” said Cord.

  “That’s right.”

  “But isn’t it a drug taken by injection?”

  “It is. She had it both in her stomach and in her blood stream. Here.” She took the autopsy file and pointed halfway down a page full of chemical names.

  “If she’d injected it, why would she have it in her stomach?” asked Cord.

  “Good question,” said Zeke.

  * * *

  “So this is Joyce’s,” said Zeke. He was sitting across the red, laminate-topped table from Dale Adams in the diner-type restaurant.

  “It is. One of Stanley’s hot spots.”

  They looked at their menus. The Nodak Burger caught Zeke’s eye.

  “Every small town needs a Joyce’s,” said Zeke. He looked around, noticing the cake displays on the counters. “Bet they have good desserts here.”

  “Best in three counties. They win ribbons at the State Fair every year,” said Dr. Adams. She had an easy, California confidence.

  “It doesn’t look like you eat much cake,” said Zeke.

  Dr. Adams ignored the remark. “So Mr. Cord is coming back to join us?” she asked.

  “He wanted to check in with the local police while we were up here,” said Zeke. “And the staties. I think they were all getting on a conference call…”

  The waitress, a thin woman with thin lips and a nametag that read “Gail” took their orders. She brought them two thick ceramic cups and splashed coffee into each.

  “Cream and sugar are right there, honey,” she said absently, and she walked away.

  There were a dozen people in the diner, and it smelled of French fries and grilled onions. Zeke sipped his coffee and found it to be surprisingly good.

  “The Xylazine you found in Jenny Lakota’s system…” Zeke started.

  “Yes, it was the Rompun. The dosage in her blood stream was huge, more than I’d prescribe for a typical horse. Some of it got there from her stomach—she’d obviously taken a pill or a capsule—but most of it was from an injection,” said Dr. Adams.

  “Where was the injection site?” asked Zeke.

  “Good question. It was in the left thigh, actually. On the outside of the leg.”

  “That’s a good spot.”

  “It is. Quick dispersion into the body.”

  “She would have gone into zombie mode pretty quickly after that, then,” said Zeke.

  Dr. Adams nodded. “Very quickly.”

  * * *
<
br />   “I checked on that other murder,” said Cord when he joined Zeke and Dr. Adams at Joyce’s Diner. “The three year old one.”

  “While you were coordinating with the tribal police?” asked Zeke.

  Cord nodded. He took out his small notebook and opened it. “It took place in early 2016. North of New Town, near the Evans Site, like the mother said.”

  “Miriam. The mother’s name is Miriam Lakota,” said Zeke.

  “Yessir. The victim was Casey Black, and she was twenty-four. Died of knife inflicted wounds. But she wasn’t skinned,” said Cord.

  “The Evans Site is an archeological dig,” added Dr. Adams. “It’s just north of New Town.”

  “What kind of wounds?” asked Zeke.

  “The coroner’s report said knife wounds,” said Cord. He looked at Dr. Adams.

  “I wasn’t here then,” she said.

  “Good. We’re narrowing down your age estimate,” said Zeke. His eyes twinkled.

  “From what I could determine, it was a series of slashes and gouges. The report says she went into shock, then died of a loss of blood,” Cord said. “So, similarities to the Jenny Lakota killing…”

  “…but differences, too,” said Zeke.

  “Could have been the same killer,” said Cord.

  “But the differences. Not saying it’s not possible, but…” said Cord.

  “Or an accomplice. Or two killers,” said Zeke. “Even with Jenny drugged, it would be hard for one person to transport her to the railroad tracks. Much easier for two.”

  Cord nodded and said, “Or one very large man.”

  Dr. Adams sipped her coffee.

  “Motive?” asked Zeke.

  “Just speculation,” said Cord. “The location, the site where they found Casey Black’s body, could have been symbolic. The Evans Site was discovered around 1980.” He checked his notes. “They found a number of Avonlea projectile points up there.”

  Dr. Adams said, “Projectile points?”

  “Arrowheads,” said Zeke. “The murder could have been symbolic,” he repeated.

  “Might be,” said Cord.

  “Or possibly a statement. Or a ritual?” asked Zeke.

  “No one could tell. There wasn’t anything to confirm it. And no posing of the body or anything else to explain why she was killed. Or why she was killed right there,” said Cord.

  “Anything else in the report?” asked Zeke.

  “No, not really. There wasn’t a trail to follow, and the cops really didn’t have a suspect. They interviewed Casey Black’s family and friends, but nothing came of it. One day she was alive, and the next morning they found her dead.”

  * * *

  “Dr. Adams,” said Zeke, “Can we talk about the weapon for a minute?”

  Cord looked up from his notebook, then set it down on the table, paying attention.

  “Sure, anything we can do to help,” said Dr. Adams.

  “Jenny Lakota and the weapon they used on her. What was it?” asked Zeke.

  “It was some sort of knife or blade…”

  “Was it surgical?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I don’t think it was that small. A lot of the skin was cut off in small, flat pieces.”

  “But very sharp…” he continued.

  She was nodding, serious. “Yes, almost surgical in that way. The blade was extremely sharp. I could tell by the clean cuts. Whoever it was cut the parameter of a section, then sliced the skin out. Sort of peeled it out. Whatever they used had to be very sharp.”

  “Sharp like a surgical knife,” repeated Cord to himself. “Are we looking for someone with a background in medicine?”

  “Hmm. No, not exactly,” she said. “Like I said, surgical knives are typically very small and very sharp. The blades are usually disposable, single-use blades. They’re built for very precise use, and they allow for a lot of control by the surgeon. This, though, this must have been a wider, flat blade with a very sharp edge. Not really surgical…”

  “A hunter’s knife?” asked Zeke.

  “Might be. Something used to skin an animal after its been killed? Yes, perhaps,” she said.

  * * *

  “I need to talk with a trapper,” said Zeke. “Quick.” Dr. Adams had left for her M.E.’S office and Zeke and Cord were waiting for the check at Joyce’s Diner. Gail, the waitress was nowhere to be seen.

  “What’re you thinking?” asked Cord.

  “Well, there’re a lot of hunters up this way,” said Zeke. “And a fair number of folks who trap. Common thing is, they both need to know how to skin an animal.”

  “Or they know where to find someone to process their kill,” said Cord.

  “Or that,” Zeke agreed. “Can you get me a contact?”

  “I’ll ask local law enforcement in New Town and see what we have between here and there. We can stop on our way back. Is that soon enough?”

  Zeke nodded.

  * * *

  It turned out that the closest meat processor was in Ray, North Dakota, about thirty miles due west of Joyce’s Diner. Cord called Lieutenant Mankato, who gave him the name and address.

  Cord drove quickly, and they arrived outside Larson’s Meats, a worn out one-story concrete block building with a red clapboard front and white trim in need of some serious paint. There was a hand painted cardboard sign in the window that read, “We accept debit & credit cards.”

  Inside the small space, Zeke and Cord saw no one. Cord rang the bell on the counter.

  They heard a shout, and a couple minutes later, a tall, thick man wearing a metal butcher’s apron and smelling of copper walked through the curtain dividing the front of the shop from the rear.

  “Didn’t expect anyone this late, ya know,” he said.

  “You’re Ronald Larson?” asked Cord. He was looking at the man’s metal mesh gloves, which were holding a bloody boning knife loosely.

  “I am. You’re not from around here, are you?” asked Larson as he set the knife down.

  Cord smiled a sardonic smile. “More than I want to be, just now.”

  Larson nodded as if he were agreeing.

  “Well, how can I help you?”

  “We have some questions about meat processing tools,” said Zeke. “And we thought we’d talk with an expert.”

  Ronald Larson looked blank for a minute, then he said, “Oh, that girl down in New Town. Thought you looked like a cop.” This last he said to Cord.

  “I’m the FBI,” said Cord.

  Larson nodded slowly, as if confirming his suspicions.

  “Whattdaya got, then?”

  “We want to talk about the process and the tools. Have you always been a meat processor?” asked Zeke.

  “Yeah, since I moved here from Minnesota. And that was over twenty years ago.”

  “How do you know Lieutenant Mankato?” asked Cord.

  “He’s with the Tribal Police down in New Town,” said Larson.

  “It sounded like he knows you pretty well.”

  “Well, yeah, he’s arrested me a couple times. Drunk and disorderly. But that was a while ago.”

  “How long?” asked Cord.

  “Oh, maybe three weeks or so,” said Larson sort of sheepishly.

  “We’re not here about that,” said Zeke.

  “But the Lieutenant’s a hunter, and sometimes he brings his kills up here to me to process,” Larson continued.

  “Do you get work from many Native Americans?” asked Zeke.

  “Some. Some do it themselves or take it to a relative on the reservation. They’re not all licensed, but, well, it’s the reservation.”

  “We’re specifically interested in the tools you use,” said Zeke.

  Larson looked at him a moment. “You don’t think I had anything to do with that down there, do you?”

  “No reason to,” said Zeke.

  “OK. Well, most of the hard work is done with the meat and bone saw. You know what that is?”

  “Sort of loo
ks like a band saw?” asked Zeke.

  “Sort of.”

  “What about skinning the animals?” asked Zeke.

  “Just a skinning knife. I have a six-inch one that works fine. It’s sort of bowed, you know, to let you get the blade to the skin easily. Gotta keep it sharpened, though.”

  “Would it work as well on human skin?” asked Zeke.

  “Well, it probably wouldn’t be the best tool for that.” He made a face. “But to do what they did to that poor girl, yeah. A sharp one would take her skin off pretty easily.”

  * * *

  Zeke drove his rental car down the street slowly, watching the addresses on the mailboxes and above the front doors. Van Hook was clearly a step up from New Town socioeconomically.

  Although many of the homes were manufactured housing, they sat on landscaped lots, some with mature trees, just a couple of blocks from the Van Hook Arm of Lake Sakakawea, a large sporting lake. It looked like it was the result of a damming project.

  Cord had dropped Zeke off in New Town where he’d rented the car and was now trying to find Cheryl Black. A tired Tillman Cord had said that he had no interest in a three year old murder.

  Zeke found the address using his hotel’s local phone book. He parked in the street and approached the one-story manufactured home with vinyl siding and bright blue shutters. There was a three-step staircase that led to the front door, and Zeke climbed the steps and knocked.

  A large woman wearing a green summer dress covered by a gray sweatshirt opened the door.

  “Cheryl Black?”

  “I’m Cheryl,” said the woman. “Are you the guy who called?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Zeke Traynor. I’m working with the FBI.”

  “Unofficial, you said.”

  “Yes, ma’am. They’ve granted me no police powers. I’m just here to find out what happened to Jenny Lakota.”

  The woman stepped out on the porch and closed the door. Then she shook a cigarette out of a pack and lit it. “My folks are inside watching T.V. The Price is Right. Not sure what I can do to help, but, well, here I am.”